Mr Monk and the New Assistant
by Amymimi
Summary: The beginning of a new relationship for Adrian Monk, Natalie Teeger's POV. Monk is called in to investigate a new case, involving a firey suicide... COMPLETED!
1. The First Day

**Alright, this first chapter is basically a SETUP for the chapters to come. It is NOT in the same format as they will be in, which will be in episode-type format, with dialogue, etc. Please note this if you are planning on referring to this in a review. Just a warning. **

**Please read and review! . I have a whole bunch of chapters on the way, ready to go, but I would like some reviews and opinions from readers before I post them. **

**By the way, I don't own Adrian Monk, Natalie Teeger, etc. **

**The first day**

I never thought my life would turn out this way. Everything wasn't supposed to be such a mess. I thought that when I got married that I'd be married for the rest of my days, raising a family together, and spending all my years with my husband, watching our kids grow up and raise their own families. Of course, it's obviously changed now, and somehow I've pulled through the hell of it all these past six years. I really don't get how Julie does it. Most nights I cry myself to sleep because I have no other time to do it, between working at the bar and Julie. She can't see how much it tears me up inside each and every day, but I feel that I'm through the worst. Well, maybe not; I don't know. She seems to cope well, but now that she's approaching her teen years, the lack of a father figure may hurt. Sometimes I get angry that he ever set foot in a plane, but then again, I never would have met him if he hadn't…

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I had been working as a blackjack dealer in Vegas for almost a year, barely scraping by, and had become addicted to gambling. He came over to my table where I had been losing tons of money, looking so incredibly handsome in his pilot's uniform that I actually looked up from my game. I was then about 23, and Mitch was 28. He had stopped his jet in Vegas to catch up on his sleep before beginning a new flight, but had decided to look around the casino first. He told me to stop gambling, that I would lose everything if I continued. I obeyed. I gave up gambling for good, eventually leaving Las Vegas with him…. That is, until a few years ago, when I decided that the house our family had lived in together was too much to bear. I had spent five years living with him and Julie in that house, and three with just Julie.

Then along comes that godforsaken intruder into my private home, and my life is changed again. I actually kill another human being, with my daughter's scissors, no less. And I still can't believe that I am not a complete basket case over what has happened to me. I do give myself credit for keeping calm, if only for Julie's sake. She's smart about stuff, but she's already gone through a lot from her father's passing, and doesn't need her mother having a nervous breakdown. It's bad enough knowing that the scissors she once used took someone's life.

Of course the San Francisco police department is inept in explaining what those men were doing in my house, and I seriously consider moving out. I had thought I had really started anew in renting that apartment, in reviving that goldfish year after year after year for Julie, but my plans just _have_ to fall through every time. What better way than burglary to jolt me back to my senses?

In all my haste to find out why there were not one, but two intruders in my house, I chase down the "renowned" Adrian Monk, the man who I find can't even handle putting out a fire in a waste basket. At first glance, he seems quite ordinary, dare I say even quite _distinguished_, wearing his brown suit and dress shirt and polished shoes, but right when he begins moving and speaking, that's when I can tell there is definitely something wrong with him. Well, I can't say _wrong_ with him because it's exactly _that _aspect of him that enables him to do what others can't, I suppose. In just that first day with the detective, my life will probably change yet again, hopefully for the positive.


	2. The First Day Part II

**I'm putting up this second chapter, and it's beginning to get into the episode-type writing. I really haven't gotten many reviews yet, but thank you to who reviewed! And please continue reviewing!**

It's easy to notice from the very start that Mr. Monk is lonely and depressed, living all by himself in that uncomfortably spick-and-span home of his, if you can even call it a home. If my house was that tidy, with everything in rows and not a smudge of dirt or dust bunny anywhere, I'd go crazy. It doesn't even appear that anyone even _lives _in his house, like it's frozen in time, preserved from the touch of stray hairs to flakes of skin to crumbs of food. I still can't figure out how I convince him to help me, because he seems quite uptight, and needless to say, stubborn. You could even say it's a childlike stubbornness, because an adult would realize that with a fire, for example, rapid measures need to be taken, although not in the case of _measuring_ out eight feet from the source, and demanding the precise distance be obeyed. Well, maybe I'm being too harsh, but I've never met anyone like him before and that's my own childishness coming through in all its glory. All the men I've ever known never dusted, instead letting huge deposits of it build up on their TV screens, countertops, and toilet tanks. I never observed my own father dusting or vacuuming or even cleaning the dishes by himself. Granted, if mom were washing them, he'd dry them, but who's to say the dish wouldn't dry on its own if left out long enough?

Strangely, I feel a sense of accomplishment at getting Mr. Monk to help me with my case. What's funny is, he hadn't even been looking to start back up in the consulting work, considering his nurse, as he calls her, left him three months ago. Well, originally he says he has lost a dear friend, and so I immediately assume he/she had died, but this isn't the case. He had actually been interviewing new nurses when I first meet him. God knows why he's waited this long to look for another nurse, but I guess I can sympathize. When my husband died, it took me more than a year to even _want _to date again, and even then, I took it as slow as possible. I had had this strange sentimentality to remain monogamous to him, even though he was gone, and it's still hard to swallow the fact that I'm single, as in, no longer married. Maybe his nurse held such importance to him that he needed time to think things through and adjust to life without her.

It feels really odd bringing the strange man over to my house after I just meet him, but Mr. Monk seems harmless enough. I'm sorry to mention once again, but a man who can't handle a fire extinguisher is extremely naïve, and thus, is utterly blameless. Only when he begins his work do I realize just how talented he truly is. He examines my living room- the crime scene- from every angle, noting the placement of random items, and even seems to magically discover that I keep my money in a coffee can by the subtle indication that I don't own a coffee maker. I definitely don't see that coming, and most certainly wouldn't want someone like him breaking in my house. He'd know exactly how to leave it so that there wouldn't be a trace as to who entered or why, and he'd know just where to look for what he wanted. In his odd search for evidence, he even notices that Julie has grown some by marking it down on the doorway, and is correct on her change in height down to a fraction of an inch.

He waves his hands about in very precise yet mysterious ways, and I notice that he is wearing a wedding band on his left ring finger. Why does he need a nurse if he's married? He seems in fine physical shape, active and lean, with no oxygen machines or IVs stashed away in some corner, so what's his deal? He continues gliding about my house in an almost graceful manner, taking note of what he considers to be important and what may actually _be_ important to the case.

The man is definitely tactless, however talented he may be. Just as I have accepted the fact that he is a genius sleuth, he embarrasses me to no end in front of my daughter by his 'discovery' of my birth control pills in my jacket pocket. What man in his right mind would do something so completely disrespectful? My face, I'm sure, reddens like a tomato as he stumbles on his words, trying to account for their presence in my jacket, and Julie just stands there, taking it all in and making my humiliation that much worse.

Then on top of it all he attempts to lie, to explain that they are just tic tacs or breath mints or whatever excuse he uses. And then he _winks_ at me as if he had convinced Julie or something. He's truly childlike in his approach to things, and a horrible liar. Which is okay usually, I'll agree, although it isn't okay at that very second in time.

The man certainly needs assistance in everyday life. I honestly have no idea how he has survived these past three months without an assistant, but he sure does know about housekeeping, and solving murders and supposedly random criminal events. Within minutes he finds a blue dip net jammed beside a cushion on my couch, and after finding out that it's new and not my daughter's, he concludes that the _fish tank_ has something to do with the intruders. It doesn't make much sense to me that the police force, in my house all day, didn't notice this object in the very place that I fought the man. He also points out the fact that the aquarium light was turned on, which I had distinctly remembered turning off the night before, and so these two 'clues' convince him that there is definitely something that the intruders want in the fish tank.

We are walking to my vehicle, a silver Jeep Grand Cherokee that I had somehow scrounged up enough money to afford monthly payments for, when he stops suddenly.

"Is that…your vehicle?" he proceeds to ask, with the most disturbed and dumbfounded look he could conjure.

"The Cherokee?" I have just reached it and press the automatic unlock button with my thumb. "Yes, why?"

"Why did you leave your rear window rolled down?" He puts a hand to his perfectly stubble-free chin, pondering this minor detail, as he supports it with his other arm by cupping his elbow with his other hand.

I look over at the window in question, which I can see is closed, and then turn towards him, trying to decipher what he is getting at.

"What are you talking about? It's closed."

He shakes his head slowly, as if chiding a lazy student. He then points at the window from chin-level, and as I face it again, he strolls over and pulls his jacket sleeve over his right hand, then runs the tip of his covered pinkie finger along the tiny opening at the top of the glass. Satisfied with his little victory, he attempts to smile, but I roll my eyes at him.

"Okay, you're right, Mr. Monk. Maybe Julie forgot to close it all the way. It's really hard to tell it's open, as you can see."

He allows his hand to appear again from under the tweed sleeve and examines my face from the short distance he is away from me.

"But why would she sit in the back seat? There's just the two of you, right?" Leaning his head to the side, he seems deeply perplexed and bothered by such an everyday occurrence. Big deal about the window; the opening is so small that he can't even fit his pinkie finger all the way into it. I sigh aloud and lower the baggie that contains my daughter's goldfish to my side, not seeing the relevance of this detail to anything I am concerned about right now.

"Yes, but I have power windows and it's been hot lately, so maybe I rolled them all down and forgot to raise them all back up completely."

"You don't use air conditioning? This is a fairly new vehicle; I'm sure it has it." He is still not convinced, by the doubt lingering on his face, and I fear I'll begin to show my growing agitation in the tone of my voice.

"No I don't, because gas is too damn expensive right now to suck it all out on something as unimportant as AC. And the vehicle is not_ fairly_ new, it's a 2004."

"I see," he mutters, looking satisfied for the first time since the ridiculous conversation began. As I open the driver's side door for myself, he walks around the front of the vehicle and uses his sleeve to open the handle. I haven't hit the unlock button twice though, so he keeps pulling at the handle of the locked door.

"Hold on, I still have to unlock it," I fume, gently placing the baggie in the console so as not to frighten the goldfish too badly. To make sure he sees me unlock the doors, I hold the keyless entry pad up in the car, in perfect view of the passenger's side window, and click the button again. This time he hesitates, not quite sure if I am bluffing or trying to trick him(?), so I climb into the driver's seat and close the door, hoping he'll get the point. It is then that he attempts to open the door again, and it works.

He climbs into the seat slowly, as if it is made of Styrofoam or something and he will break off a piece if he gets in too quickly. By his awkward entry into my SUV, I can tell he hasn't had much experience with them.

"Mr. Monk?" I just have to know the significance of his previous comments about the window. He turns his head towards me as he struggles to buckle his seat belt, missing the latch completely with his wandering right hand, and looks down to find it. "Why were you so concerned about the window? I mean, does it have anything to do with the case?" As I finish the sentence, I tap the button to close the rear window completely.

He is still fidgeting in the seat, now glaring down at the assortment of coins I have amassed in the console cup holder as he continually misses the seat belt latch. He doesn't even seem to acknowledge my question, instead being preoccupied with his new interest.

"Mr. Monk," I repeat more forcefully. It is strange referring to him in that way, as if I am addressing an unnamed religious figure or something. He doesn't look up, instead allowing the seat belt to jerk back to its seat-side hanger as he leans forward towards the coins. I know that he has discovered some other aspect of my less-than-perfectionist order to things. "What's wrong?" The level of annoyance I am feeling is growing by the second. I grab his shoulder and shake him, and he looks up, as startled as if I had just appeared to him out of a dark alley.

"Your cup holder –" he manages to mutter, as the seat belt latch clicks in.

"What _about_ my cup holder?"

"There are… coins in it." The pile of coins in the console is really bothering him, for he is now clasping his hands together, twiddling his ever-curious fingers to keep them from reaching for the pile. He continues to glare at the coins, and then looks up at me. "You shouldn't put… coins in the cup holder…. They need t–.. they belong in the slots…" He looks down at his jacket and reaches inside a pocket, pulling out a wet wipe. "I—I need to fix this…"

"Mr. Monk, you do not need to fix anything. I just want to find out what is so special about this fish!" I lift the goldfish bag over his lap, and he flinches, pressing his back against the seatback as if the bag was leaking diseased water all over him. God, I am in over my head….

We head to the pet store to ask about Mr. Henry, the fish I have him watch the entire duration of the car trip, and hit a dead end: there is nothing extraordinary about it. Nevertheless, it means the world to Julie. Her father had gotten it for her just before he died, and I have replaced it year after year to retain the last bit of living memory she has left of her father. She believes that Mr. Henry has been alive for six years, although the lifespan of the crimson marblefish is less than two years. I can't bear to tell her the truth about my replacing it; she would be heartbroken. It's as if her father lives within the fish, and he hasn't truly left us forever.

As we walk around the pet store, Mr. Monk begins to relate his own life to a parrot's lonely existence in a birdcage, and suddenly, the quiet, seemingly dysfunctional man before me is unveiled as a caring, devoted husband, heartbroken and grieving daily over the death of his wife. He tells me later that Trudy had been murdered nine years ago, and the murderer is still at large. I can't even fathom the guilt he must feel every day to have been a police detective and not have been able to solve his own wife's murder, and I feel complete pity and a new understanding for this man who has experienced what I have, the death of a spouse.

Using the tiniest of trace evidence, including the dip net, the aquarium light being on, and a new piece of evidence about the Sea of Tranquility, which I remember as a new exhibit at the museum Julie had just been to, Mr. Monk soon solves the case as to what the men were looking for in my house. They had been searching for a priceless moon rock that they had stuck in my daughter's aquarium kit I bought her at the museum, a mere hunk of aquarium gravel I had supposed, and it was apparently worth millions.

As a burning exhibit at the school science fair sets off widespread havoc, the museum tour guide suspect attempts to escape with the dip net containing the moon rock as well as Mr. Henry, which he had confiscated from my daughter's fish tank during the mayhem. Mr. Monk knows from earlier happenings at the science museum that that man was the intruder in my house and immediately takes chase, with me a distance behind, to the guide's eventual position at the bottom of the stairs. The museum worker had fallen, dropping Mr. Henry and the priceless moon rock in the process. I gasp as I come upon the scene of Monk trying to decide which object to take from the floor, the fish or the rock, watching him pace back and forth as if it's the hardest decision of his life. I am too far down the hallway to aid in his decision, for the criminal is sprawled out on the floor and the cops are hot on his trail as well. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Monk grabs the fish and races as quickly as he can back to the fish tank to save it from certain death, not even looking back to see what becomes of the rock.

I quit my job as a bartender today, deciding to try my luck at working for this complex man who has truly made my day a whole lot better. Not only did he solve the case, but he saved my daughter's fish in the process, prioritizing this sentimental representation of Julie's father over an invaluable piece of national history. I think I've made the right decision, just as he so obviously did.


	3. Mr Monk and the Suicide

**These next several chapters of my story all consist of an 'episode' that I made up myself. Enjoy. **

**Mr. Monk and the Suicide**

He sometimes talks about Sharona, his former assistant. Okay, he talks about her a lot, always comparing her to me, like she is the standard or something. He mentions the crimes that he had solved with her help and womanly perspective, and her "irrational" fear of elephants that he helped alleviate. He constantly brings up the fact that she was always available with wipes and her station wagon for his use, and that she wouldn't take his crap.

He mentions the great times he had with her, and her persistence to get him to do things that he would never have done alone, like flying in an airplane (which I still can't believe he did, by the way), treading through sewer-water, acting on stage in a packed theater, and so many other amazing activities that I have problems picturing him doing. I truly have a lot to learn about him, if he's capable of all that.

I can tell by the look in his eyes as he speaks of Sharona that he really misses her and cares about her. I have to hear daily about her good-for-nothing ex-husband that she had recently remarried, and how her son Benjy will be scarred for life from staying with him again.

Let's face it; I have a big duty ahead of me. I have to make him forget about or at least stop comparing me to the wonder-nurse known as Sharona. Alright, I'm sorry I insulted her, but just her up-and-leaving turns me against her already, without having even met her. Not only is he hung up on his wife's unsolved murder, which I can perfectly understand, he has to be abandoned suddenly by his 'beloved' assistant.

As he finishes arranging the magazines on my coffee table by their published dates, since they are all Reader's Digests, he pauses to scan the room for something else to straighten or fix or order. His ever-present silver wedding band shimmers as the sunlight streams through the window, and he looks uncomfortable as hell sitting on the couch where the intruder had grabbed me.

"Mr. Monk, it's quite alright. You don't have to help anymore."

He glances up at me, narrowing his eyes a bit. "I'm not… helping…" he sputters. "It has to be done." I return to my work, finishing chopping up a few carrots in the kitchen, and use the palm side of my hand to push the pieces into a zip lock bag, for later use in the salad I'm making for the three of us: Julie, Monk, and me.

"Ohhhh…." I almost drop the baggie at the moaning sound he makes from the living room, like he's having a heart attack. As I spin around to look at him, he continues softly moaning, with his face contorted into one of utter disgust. He is turned around in his seat, having been watching me. I suddenly am very paranoid.

"What is it? Do you need a doctor? You look terrible!" I cry. With the baggie still in my hand, I walk over to his side as he follows me with his steady, disgusted gaze.

"You –you just touched all the… carrots," he mutters.

"Yes, but my hands are clean, see?" I hold my hands up to him, palms up, with the baggie held solely by my thumb and forefinger.

"I… I can't see your right thumb," he states, as if he is trying to prove my guilt.

Utilizing both of my hands again, I zip the zipper of the bag closed and lay it down on the couch arm. He stares down at it. "No," he grates, like he's scolding a dog.

"It's sealed, Mr. Monk. I assure you it won't drip out."

He gapes up at me, then down at the bag again. "That isn't a Ziploc bag."

These are the things that bother me, when he plays detective with me.

"Yes it is," I say sternly. I point at the bag. "See the zipper? It's a Ziploc."

"Uhmm…." He shakes his head and twitches his shoulder, biting his lower lip.

"No, it's not." He seems upset to mention this last fact to me, but does anyway.

"Are you trying to make me go insane already?" I can feel my blood pressure rise. I really hate being accused of lying, and he's already done it more times than I can count.

"Uh –it's not Ziploc… The –the seal is clear, not blue and red. The-the bag doesn't even say 'Ziploc' on it. It's generic— it's not sturdy enough to set on the couch safely…"

I scoff and pick up the bag by the bottom, daring him with my eyes. He cringes and scoots toward the other side of the couch.

"Wh-what are you doing? D-don-don't do that, you'll spill it out everywhere!" He is visibly shaken by my risky maneuver with the generic bag, and emotes frantically with his hands, palms out, as if trying to convince an angry bull to stop charging.

I shake the bag while it's upside-down, and sure enough, as I am about to give him a look of triumph, the zipper seal breaks, and the carrots spill all over the floor. I flash the detective a look of death as he gapes toward the floor in utter horror. Disgusted with his prediction, I throw the bag forcefully onto the floor with the vegetables, and walk back towards the kitchen. He hasn't been around yet a month, and I'm already stressed out to the max.

"You-you can't just… leave; they're everywhere!" After a quick panicked glance towards me, he shifts back towards that side of the couch, and looks down at the carrot pieces scattered all over the place, with my hastily thrown bag alongside them.

"If you paid me more, Mr. Monk, I wouldn't have to buy generic baggies." I try to be as polite as possible in my moment of humiliation, and he looks at me sourly.

"Sharona always bought Zi—"

I cut him off immediately with a loud exasperated sigh, already completely sick of being constantly compared with her.

"She's gone now, isn't she? No matter what she did for you then, she's not here anymore to do it." I fold my arms and lean against the doorway, waiting for his response.

He gapes in my general direction, and then slowly rises to his feet, because it's hard to see where I'm standing from his spot on the couch. He puts his hands out in an apologetic way, palms up near his waistline, as he prepares to speak. If he knew just how much he says with his hands, he'd probably have them tied behind his back.

"I'm sorry, Natalie, I didn't mean to compa—"

"It's okay. You were right about the bag." I glance off in the direction of the fish tank, too embarrassed at my childlike ravings to look him in the eye. "I just wish you hadn't mentioned it in the first place"—I steal a glance at him, as he is now looking down at the carrots—"because then the carrots wouldn't be all over the fl—"

He interrupts me with a throat clearing sound, and leans his upper body towards the carrots on the floor, as if inspecting them with a great amount of interest. "Are you going to cl... you know, clean them up?" he manages to say gruffly.

"Well, we can't eat 'em now," I scoff, raising my eyebrows. "I guess you'll have to deal with no carrots for tonight, Mr. Monk."

As I finish my sentence, I notice he's moving one leg back, his left; he's preparing to squat by the food. I don't say anything, hoping he'll continue what he's planning on doing, which I hope consists of cleaning up the mess. He lowers himself to the floor thoughtfully, and clasps his hands together as if trying to decide if the carrots are clean enough to touch.

"Wipe, wipe, wipe," he repeats in a soft, urgent tone. Loud enough for me to hear though. I head into the kitchen to get him a wipe when I suddenly realize I can do the job myself without wasting the money I'd use on the extra wipes. Even though I am now going to be receiving a bigger paycheck to help cover the expenses of such items, I want to save all the money I can. He seems startled when I return to couch-side in a matter of seconds, and stares up at me impatiently, expecting me to hand him a wipe. I squat down next to him, uncomfortably close across from him I notice, and look him right in the eye.

"I am going to clean this up myself, because then I don't have to waste a wipe doing it. I know you mean well, but you are costing me money." As I grab for the first pile of carrots to pick up, he puts his hand on mine, a strange gesture that almost throws me off balance. Monk, touching me with his _bare_ hand? I'm assuming he wants me to stop.

The hurt is written all over his face, which is really close to mine right now, and his dark eyes take on this pleading puppy-dog look of distress, and indecision. _He_ is using the puppy-dog face on me? I didn't think it was possible until now, but his slow, long expiration of breath during this time tells me that he had been holding it.

As quickly as his hand had appeared on mine, he removes it and wipes it verrrrry slowly on his pant leg, assuming I won't notice when it's done in slow motion or something. He's definitely tactless, if not a bit surprising.

"It's alright…I'll pick them up…" It's as if he's struggling for breath, for he practically hyperventilates between his words. "I don't need a w…" He scoffs gutturally and exhales. "a wipe." I watch his Adam's apple rise up and descend as he swallows hard. This germ stuff must truly scare him to death, for he has the look of a man forced to take the blame for a murder, at the mere thought of touching food without using hand wipes.

He timidly extends his hand again towards the carrots, and shuts his eyes as he closes his fingers around a bunch. My cell phone suddenly rings, jarring us both to temporarily lose our balance, and him to drop the carrots again onto the floor. I am the only one to rise, and I head to the kitchen to answer the phone.

I grab it and open it up, revealing that the call is from Captain Stottlemeyer's office, and I smile to know there'll be some money made with a new case.

"Hello?" I ask the receiver, although I know who's calling. A deep gruff voice answers. It _is_ Captain Stottlemeyer.

"Hello, Natalie?"

"Yes, it's me, Captain. What's up?" I try to sound casual, but I am excited at the thought of a new case.

"Have Monk come down; a building across from the police station just blew up."

"What happened?" I am aching with curiosity.

He laughs spitefully. "Just what I told you, a building blew up. We don't know anything else yet."

"Alright, I'll bring him down. Thanks!" I close the cell phone with a click, feeling kind of insulted by the captain's treatment of me, like I'm a little kid, and I pace back over to where Monk is still bent down on the floor, a sickened look to his face as he holds the zip lock bag at ground level in his left hand and flings the carrots into it by flicking his fingers on the floor.

I stare at him until he is obviously uncomfortable; he can tell I'm staring at him even though he's concentrating on the carrots, and looks up at me with an irritated expression. "What is it?" he murmurs, as he continues his work. He must think I'm going to comment on his slow pick-up.

"That was Captain Stottlemeyer on the phone. He wants you to come down to the station now. A building blew up across the street."

He jumps to his feet with amazing agility, eyes wide with terror "Just now! I didn't hear it! Where's your fire extinguisher? Oh, God, oh God oh G—"

"Not across from _my_ house, Mr. Monk, across from the police station. I doubt you would have heard it from here." I can't help but giggle about the fire extinguisher. "You think you can stand exactly eight feet away from a burning building and put it out?"

The detective glares me down. "It's… not… funny. Those are the instructions…." He goes to straighten his pants and, realizing his hands are covered with carrot juice, holds his hands out in front of him in horror.

"Okay, okay, I'll get you a wipe."

He starts to walk towards me, gaping at his hands and grumbling. "Never mind, I can wash my hands in your bathroom." He pauses a moment. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, but I know _you_ won't be for another hour or so…"

He rolls his eyes, sighs deeply, and heads toward the bathroom, causing me to feel a pang of guilt at my comment. Once he reaches the closed door, he hesitates and looks back at me with his hands out to his sides.

"How kind of you, to not want to get the juice on the doorknob!" I smile at the respect he has for my house. "I'll get that for you."

Once he establishes himself in the bathroom and cautiously shuts the door in my face, I hear him turn on the taps. The water continues to run for five minutes and the agitation steadily increases.

"Please hurry, the evidence may be all gone before you get there." I stand anxiously outside the door with my arms crossed, hoping he listens.

Suddenly the door opens and he starts the tap back up, to rewash after touching the knob. Using a hand towel, he dries his hands and turns off the taps.

"What are you talking about, all gone?"

"Just what I said. The place exploded, Mr. Monk, so it's probably burning as we speak."

He steps sideways out of the doorway, not rubbing against me in any way, as I am blocking a good half of the opening.

"Okay, let's go," he states, half smiling. I think he's impressed himself with his timeliness. However, as we walk into the living room, a look of disgust crosses his face. "The carrots..." He points down at the floor as if it's hard to see them.

"I'll have Julie clean them up," I say. I give him the 'wait' signal and go to Julie's room, where she has been watching _Full House_ reruns all day.

I tell Julie I'll be right back, and I ask her to please clean up the carrots and not to answer the door or phone or turn on the hair dryer or stove or curling iron, and we head toward the front door to my waiting SUV. He never lets the carrots leave his sight while we're in the house, and so I push him towards the door, and shut and lock it quickly before he changes his mind about the intact mess. Our trip to the vehicle is not as big a deal as the first time, because I had previously assured that all the windows were rolled up completely and that the door handles sparkled.

I notice that he doesn't use his sleeve to open the door this time; he simply gets in the vehicle and puts on his seat belt without incident. To show my appreciation and surprise, I flash a smile at him and we head to the station.

Upon reaching the station's block, we are greeted by a roadblock, along with the continual honking of countless fire trucks positioned in front of the torched building and the roar of their diesel engines spewing huge clouds of noxious vapors into the air.

We get out of the car, slowly, as if to avoid the sound and smell that awaits us in its fullness for as long as possible. I can see the captain jogging towards us from the sidewalk in front of the station. When he reaches us, I can tell that the fire isn't bothering him too much, for he is smiling.

"Record time, Monk," he says to the detective. He turns to me. "How'd you do it? Did ya _force_ him out of the house?"

I laugh nervously, having just been paid a compliment by the police chief of San Francisco, and knowing what he said was partially true.

"Actually, I did have to pu—"

Monk cuts me off, shaking his head and putting his arm out in front of me as if barring me from more speech. "Do you know how it started, Captain?" he states matter-of-factly, and I know that Stottlemeyer will give him an actual guess and not degrade him with his response.

"We think it may have been a gas leak because of the explosion, but we still haven't entered the building.…"

"—The gas leak had to be _inside_ the house, for it to be the only one to explode. Doesn't this block of commercial buildings use a… common gas source, to… cut down on the amount of tanks?"

"What are you proposing, Monk, that someone _aimed_ to blow up that building?" I don't think Stottlemeyer had even considered the consultant's suggestion, instead making his own assumptions as to what Monk may have been thinking.

"Well… I'm… not sure yet." He shakes his head thoughtfully, watching as the firefighters unscrew one of the last limp fire hoses from the hydrant.

"I guess that means the fire is out," Stottlemeyer states, and we follow him to the scene of the fire, right behind the police tape and barriers.

"I thought you said this building _exploded_. It's almost totally intact, just burnt by the fire," Monk mumbles to the captain.

"Well, I had to exaggerate a little to get you down here quicker. It worked, didn't it?" He winks at me and continues walking at his fast pace to the front of the building.

A slew of firefighters run out of the building, panting with exertion. "There's a body!" one yells, as he heads back to the fire engine.

"Why didn't you bring it out, fellas?" the captain responds. An especially sooty fireman, apparently the leader of the group, strolls over casually with a gas mask half off his face, exposing his sooty chin. He coughs several times, spitting out a blackish hocker on the ground in front of us. Monk jumps away in disgust.

"It looks like ash and bones, it'd fall apart." His voice is muffled, but he doesn't take off the gas mask.

"Tell your men to retrieve it. We're not just going to... leave it up there because it's ashy. Besides, you still have your gas mask on." He suddenly gets a tickle in his nose and sneezes, to which I respond with "Bless you."

"Why don't you look for yourself, Captain?" Laughing indignantly, the fireman simply walks away, not even acknowledging the captain's orders.

"Geez, what a jerk," I mumble. Mr. Monk seems curious about the body, and makes this immediately known to the captain.

"Something's not right here," he murmurs. "He…he obviously wants the police force to see the bo—"

"Do you think this is some kind of a _crime_ scene, Monk? People die in fires every day. I don't know what his problem is, but it's not _our _problem."

"The-there's just something… something's not… sitting right with me…."

The captain seems to ponder a moment, then rolls his eyes and nods as if agreeing to go along with Monk's instinct.

"Well, let's check it out then," he says with a sighing tone.

After we step over the tape and Monk takes his time to go all the way around, in case some soot should rub off on his clothes, the captain greets another firefighter.

"How badly is the woodwork burnt? Is it safe to go upstairs?"

"Actually," the firefighter begins, with an air of superiority at his being questioned by the SFPD captain, "the stairs are the least burnt in the whole house. Not one board is charred. It's the strangest thing. Are you going up to see the body?"

"Why, yes I am," the captain states confidently.

"We thought it looked like a suicide. I'm sure you'll agree, Sir." I can tell that Monk has heard the firefighter as well, for he puts his hand to his chin and stares off into space.

"A suicide..." Captain Stottlemeyer, now deep in thought, proceeds to walk around the firefighter, but is stopped by another one.

"You're going to need to wear a gas mask, sir," the stocky man insists, waving one of the ugly things in front of his face. As the captain slips the ungainly mask over his face and heads through the charred doorway, Monk steps up beside me.

"Wh-what if it's a trap?" He twitches his shoulders and neck a few times as he clasps his hands together in front of him. "He's… just gonna take their word for it?"

"You're awfully paranoid, Mr. Monk."

Without acknowledging my comment, he heads into the building after the captain, and I can't help but hope a firefighter cuts him off and hands him one of those… things. He'd turn right back around, because I'm sure he'd rather die than put one of those over his head. Of course, I never actually expected him to enter a burnt-out building either….


	4. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

**Thank you, monkaholic and Jesus freak 17 ½, for reviewing! If it weren't for you guys I would not have updated this so soon! (Subtle hint to others as well)**

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I race after Monk, meeting a firefighter at the door, who apparently hadn't noticedthe detectiverunning in. "You'll have to put this on, ma'am, if you want to enter the building."

I scoff. "You _just let_ someone walk by without giving them a mask. Someone who... actually needs one." As I take the mask and lower it over my head, I glance towards the stairwell for Monk, but he is nowhere to be seen.

Upon reaching the base of the stairs, I see that Monk is standing at the very top, looking confused as to where to go. I begin to ascend the stairs, which groan and creak, and he averts his gaze towards me. I wave timidly as he proceeds to back away from the stairs, further into the second story. I then realize I'm wearing the gas mask, and figure he has forgotten what I look like, or something like that.

"Mr. Monk, don't be scared; it's just me, Natalie."

I can see half of his face appear, and he lets out a sigh of relief in the form of a cloud of soot. Shocked, he coughs and gags several times after realizing what he's inhaled. I just _have_ to get him to wear that gas mask.

Once I reach the second floor, I remove the contraption and hold it out for Monk to take. "You need to wear this," I state casually, trying not to sound too insistent.

"Wh—I can't put that on," he whines, backing away. "The firefighters… and you… just had that over your faces, getting germs all over the inside…." He puts his hands up in front of him. "I'm sorry, Natalie, I'm not goi—"

I move towards him as if trying to corner him. "Yes you _are _going to wear it; you're breathing soot, for God's sake. Do you want all that material to build up in your lungs?"

"Ac-actually, it was very, very hot in here less than—" –he checks his watch for assurance of the time— "—20 minutes ago, so the germs have to be dead on them."

I can't help but laugh at his childishness. "Do you have any idea how naïve you sound right now? Is there some kind of… 30-minute rule for germs or something? Have you _seen_ hydrant water?"

"Uhmmm… It's still… too hot for them to… establish themselves again…." He has the psyche of a child.

I reach out hastily for his arm, and drop the chin strap of the mask over his wrist. "Wh-what do you think you're doing?" he cries. He allows for the contraption to fall to the floor, and begins scrubbing his wrists feverishly on his pant legs. "Oh, God, they're all over me now…."

"Monk, Natalie, the body's over here!" Captain Stottlemeyer exclaims from inside a room with a burnt-out door.

The curly-haired man in front of me makes a complete turn to trace the direction of the Captain's voice. "Where?" he questions.

I grab both of his shoulders and lead him towards the room where Stottlemeyer is calling from. Monk stops abruptly after a few steps, and looks back at me.

"Is that –" he notices the gas mask still lying on the floor – "Are you just going to _leave _that there? It doesn't belong there, someone's going to trip." I can then hear him say under his breath, "_I_ probably will…."

I continue pushing Mr. Monk into the room where the body is lying on the floor, now reduced to white bones amidst dust and thick piles of ash. A slight smell of fossil fuel is in the air, but maybe it's just the diesel from the fire engines. I cover my nose to keep from sneezing, for I can see the ashes floating around in the air. The captain has removed his gas mask, which is now dangling around his neck.

Pulling his jacket over his nose and mouth, Monk squats down next to the body. He remains there for a time, studying the skeleton as Stottlemeyer observes quietly.

"So, whaddya think, Monk? Is it a suicide?" It's been a couple of minutes and already the captain is getting jumpy.

He stands up and looks at Stottlemeyer solemnly. "The-the bones, Captain," he begins to explain. "They hardly burned at all in the fire; they're pure white. And… how odd…. The skeleton… is holding a key."

"Ha ha, skeleton key," I manage to blurt out hollowly, finding the humor of the correlation of his words. Monk and Stottlemeyer roll their eyes in unison.

"Your point, Monk?" Stottlemeyer seems bored. By the look on Monk's face, he decides to at least attempt to scientifically explain this occurrence. "Bones don't really burn well; you oughta know that already."

Monk rises to his feet and shakes his head at Stottlemeyer. It is then that I notice a fireproof box sitting against the wall, and wonder how this had been overlooked.

"Look at the—" I start to say while pointing, but the captain cuts me off.

"Yeah, pretty strange to find a fireproof box intact after a fire." He is laughing at me with his eyes.

I can feel the fire building up inside _me_, as the insult hits home. "I'm getting a little fed up with your demeaning me every time I—"

It is then that Monk walks over to the box, lowering to one knee next to it. He pulls a dry wipe out of his coat pocket, and attempts to lift the lid of the box. It is locked. "Strange," he says, and stands back up. "Why is it lo—"

With sudden revelation, he walks back over to the body, and stares down at the key. Instead of grabbing the key from the corpse's hand though, he continues to stare, and then crosses back over to the fireproof box. With a dry wipe in hand, he lowers back down and touches the key hole on the front of the box lightly. The captain and I stare at his mini epiphany as he crosses back over to the skeleton's hand.

"This person was murdered," he states simply.

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**So, what do you think? Wanna take a guess? Review! And you'll find out!**


	5. Not Convinced

**Thanks to all who reviewed so far! Jesus Freak 17 1/2, monkaholic, Taelia, camerabugs, and lady rosebit! Good idea as well, lady rosebit, I've been trying to think of other storylines! Please continue with the feedback! Hint hint to others as well!**

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"Now, why do you say that?" Captain Stottlemeyer asks, obviously puzzled. I just stare at Monk, as if he was telling an unfunny joke. 

"The key…" he explains, "the lock on the fireproof box only fits the key a certain way, with the teeth up. The corpse is holding the key with teeth down. He…he wouldn't have been able to open the lock with the key at that angle. It unlocks with a left turn."

Stottlemeyer is obviously stunned by this, but he doesn't show it to Monk. "Very good, Monk, but why don't we find out what's in the box first?"

He swipes the key from the skeleton's hand, and proceeds to shove it into the keyhole. He had forgotten about the teeth thing, and does it the wrong way the first time. Monk sighs with relief, knowing he is correct, at least in that assumption.

The captain opens the box to find… a suicide note. He stands up abruptly, with Monk following behind him closely as he paces about the room reading it.

"Well, you were right about the murder, Monk; it was a self-inflicted murder. Just like the firefighters said, a suicide. Must've burnt the house down and stayed put." I can see the detective's shoulders droop at the comment. He hands the note to Monk with an air of superiority.

Monk reads it carefully, obviously in disbelief about his theory. He looks up at the captain after he finishes reading it. "B-but the key…" he cries. Stottlemeyer has beat him, at least for now, and he's heartbroken.

"Well, let's head on out and tell them to remove what's left of this body," the captain happily quips. Monk is still not comfortable, and he scans the room, looking for some shred of dignity. He attempts to find it at the door.

"Captain, look at this door. It's locked." He motions towards the intact frame of the door itself, and we can plainly see that it was locked… from the inside.

"What does that have to do with anything? I think your observation _further_ proves my theory, knowing that the person was locked in when he or she died. Maybe once the victim started the fire, he or she regretted it but knew it was too late."

"It's a he," Monk mumbles. "The pelvis…." His words are lost on the captain, who is now rereading the suicide note. He comes up beside Stottlemeyer, adding a few more comments. "But… it was initially an explosion, wasn't it? How would the… guy have time to come back upstairs and lock himself in?"

"_Maybe_ it was timed. Are we done here now?" He looks perturbed. I can tell Monk is getting to him with his theories.

Trudging along, the disheartened detective leads the way to the stairs with Stottlemeyer and me emerging from the suicide room, and as I grimace of thinking how much the captain's ego will grow at this discovery, Monk disappears from view, and a loud thump echoes in the gutted building.

I begin to panic immediately, fearing the worst: Monk falling through the floor, down the stairs…. When I come upon him though, I realize that he has indeed tripped over the gas mask, and is now holding his face a couple of centimeters above the floor, staring down at the wood of the top stair.

"Mr. Monk, are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?" I get down on both knees, attempting to see his face.

Stottlemeyer soon appears, and grumbles. "Get up, Monk, you're fine," he barks, maybe thinking that Monk wants some attention now.

As I lower my face to the sooty floorboards, I can see that he is staring right at them. Quickly I fan my hand in front of his eyes, which are unblinking, and he jerks up, seemingly annoyed at the interruption. I stand back up and lock my arm under his armpit preparing to help him get on his feet, but he shakes it away.

"How… strange," he mumbles.

"What is it? Have you gone nuts?"

"No." He's angry now, and he pulls himself to a kneeling position on the floor. "These boards… were soaked with water… doused completely…. to keep them from burning."

"How can you tell that?"

Monk points at a rounded whitish stain. "You can see the marks the water left when it dried on the wood." He signals for me to look closer at them, and I am able to make out the lines of white. "Now you see why I use coasters," he attempts to joke.

The captain is no longer interested, which is as plain as the moustache on his face. Monk speaks up from his spot on the floor, knowing that it's now or never to explain this occurrence. "Captain, someone soaked these stairs. Someone _wanted_ the police to come upstairs, and so had to prevent them from burning away."

"And your point is…." He looks agitated by this attempt to trump him.

"Now, why would the suicidal man care if the police found his body? Since the box is fireproof, it'll stay intact and be found sooner or later… whether or not the body is there too. Someone _wanted_ the police to think this man committed suicide."

With a scoff and a shake of the head, Stottlemeyer steps over Monk and walks down the stairs, not even taking note of the little white designs on the steps. I help the detective to his feet, and as he brushes off, I pick up the gas mask and drape it over my arm. We slowly walk down the stairs together, and he continually rubs his hands together to rid them of the soot and ash.

As we walk out of the building, we notice a man in long underwear, covered in soot and ashes, walking drunkenly out of the house. Monk stops to gape, but I pull him along.

"You don't know what drunken people are capable of," I say, attempting to explain. "He might… attack you." I then smile at him, and hear myself say, "I believe you," as we travel along the sidewalk to the Cherokee.


	6. Documentation

**Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I hope you like the chapters to come!**

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We head back to my house, and immediately Monk heads to the spot where the carrots had spilled. I sigh with relief as I approach the spot, for Julie had cleaned up all the carrots and the bag; even so, I could tell that the detective still saw something.

"What is it, Mr. Monk?"

He straightens back up, for he had been bending at the waist to inspect the carpet. "There's a small… orange… stain…. on the rug…"

As soon as I realize that he has superhuman sight, he runs off into the bathroom, retrieving a spray bottle of carpet stain remover and a rag in less than a minute.

I am stunned. "How did you know where I keep that stuff? Were you nibbing around while you were in there?" I cross my arms, waiting for his explanation.

"No…." he stammers. His modesty is amazing, how he can hold back from blurting out his reasoning. "I figured that… after that night when you killed the intruder… that there'd be blood on the floor and on your couch, a lot of blood." He pauses momentarily as he reaches the microscopic orange mark on the floor, and the suspense in the air hangs heavily as he takes his next breath. "By the box of half-empty baking soda sitting on the kitchen table, I figured that you probably first tried to scrub the blood out… but that didn't work because there was too much blood, and it was staining up the rags. You then decided to use the stain remover with the clean rags you had left. After you were done –because you were so disturbed by the possible contamination with blood – you put it in the scrub bucket with the rags." He sinks to the ground slowly, spraying the tiny spot with a ridiculously large amount of the stain remover, until it is a puddle on the rug.

I can't help but let my jaw drop at his comments, even though he is busy wasting a bottle of _my_ stuff. "Well, how did you know to look in the _bathroom_ for it? I usually keep it and the stain remover in the kitchen…."

He begins to scrub furiously at the stain with the rag, steadying himself with his other hand. "You couldn't stand the thought of bringing the bucket, even though you cleaned it out, back out into the kitchen where you eat and cook, so you left it in there, to hold a plunger, maybe, when you got around to remembering….." After he is satisfied with the thoroughness of the scrubbing job, he checks, and double checks, to make sure the speck is gone. "You left the stain remover bottle in it because you may have thought it was contaminated with blood as well…. Including the… rags that you soaked in the bucket…." He rises to a standing position as he rubs the strong-smelling chemical off of his hands with the rag, and gives me a squinty smile.

I am taken aback, and more strengthened in my resolve to believe his earlier theory that the man in the building did not commit suicide.

"You are truly amazing, Mr. Monk. I… your reasoning just… blows me away."

After staring at him for a minute or so, I head to Julie's room, even though I can hear her laughing at the same annoying T.V. show she had been watching earlier.

"Hey, Julie; we're back!" I exclaim, pushing her door open.

"Hi, Mom," she replies coolly. "Is… Mr. Monk still here?"

I step further into her room to answer, speaking more quietly. "Yes, he is. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she says, shaking her head, as her pigtails swing back and forth. "I just… wanted to do my homework on the kitchen counter, but he makes me write _right_ on the line."

I reach over and rub the top of her head. "What's so bad about that?" I say, half laughing. "It's important to write neatly."

She gives me an are-you-kidding look which conveys everything she's thinking, and I can't help but smile.

Monk appears in the doorway. "C-could you come out here please, Natalie?" It seems urgent by the way he is 'subtly' motioning with his hands.

I leave Julie to her show, and follow Monk into the living room, where he stops and stands in a trance, it seems, deep in thought.

As I put my hands on my hips, Monk breaks his stare and looks at me. "That man… did not commit suicide," he says. "Why would someone who was planning on dying care whether the steps were intact? That key seals the deal."

I hold back a smile at his use of slang. "Anything else you can think of as further proof?" I ask carefully.

"Well, the bones were unusually white, but… I don't understand how that fits into it. And that strange man…." He pauses for a moment, but I can tell he is going to say more. "Also—did you see how the body was laying? You'd think, in a fire, that one would stay in a corner, or by the window, to breathe—"

"They could always use the excuse that he _wanted_ to die, so avoided doing that."

"Don't you see?" He seems desperate to prove his point. "Anyone, no matter if they want to die or not…. the survival instinct will kick in. That's why you can't hold your breath and suffocate yourself…" He shakes his head in confusion.

I nod in agreement. Suddenly my cell phone rings. I pick it up to find it's Disher.

"Hello, Natalie?" he says, as if unsure of what he's doing. "Is Monk there?"

"Yes, he is," I sigh, and hand the phone to Monk, who wipes the earpiece off with his sleeve first.

"Hello?" the detective timidly asks. He's probably afraid it's Stottlemeyer, calling to brag or something.

I can't hear what Disher is saying, but Monk is changing his stance as if angry or annoyed.

"Could you—tell him to… have a medical examiner look the body over?" he says. "To make sure it's the Dave guy that wrote the suicide note?"

"Dave guy?" I mouth to Monk, wondering if he's actually forgotten the last name. I then remember that the note was signed 'Dave' with no last name.

Monk fidgets, obviously uncomfortable talking to Disher, who seems to be ratting on Stottlemeyer's confidence.

"—What I think? I don't think he committed suicide," he states matter-of-factly.

He then says goodbye and hangs up the phone, handing it back over to me.

"He's going to send it to a medical examiner, and see if it's really 'Dave.'" He says the last word like he's having trouble believing that it is this 'Dave' person.

Unsure of what to do until the results come back, Monk requests to be brought home, to think for awhile. I comply, and as I head back to my apartment, I can feel his anxiousness at finding out this vital clue that will make or break his theory.

After putting the meatloaf in to cook, as a dinner for all of us, I chop up some cucumbers for the salad, but keep missing them with the knife on account of my nervousness. I pray that he is correct on his assumptions, but my stomach is flopping around. He'd feel terrible to be disproved, because he _had_ pointed out some strange coincidences that didn't mesh well with the suicide story.

The call comes four hours later, at about 4:30 pm. I immediately scramble over to the phone while Julie stares up at me from her homework on the counter.

With hands trembling, I pick up the phone and blurt hello into the receiver as if I'm already sure.

"Hello there, Natalie," the voice says. It is Disher. He sounds uneasy. "Is Monk still with you?"

"No," I say. "He's at home, thinking things over. So, does the body belong to a Dave?"

"You won't believe it when I tell ya…" He pauses, and I can't help but roll my eyes at his stupid habit of keeping the suspense.

"Tell me then." This news is urgent to me.

"Well, the body does belong to a Dave Newburn… just moved into the place. He was estranged from his wife Cindy, who had been having an affair on him during the last 6 months or so of their marriage. She had moved out to live with her lover a month ago. He never did sign the divorce papers, even though it's been several months since his wife first gave them to him. Maybe it's because he'd always hoped that she'd return to him. Apparently, though, this move-out was too much for him to bear…."

After his little speech, I can sense that Disher is very proud of himself.

"I guess the case is closed then, Disher," I say, feeling upset for Monk. "Are you going to call him, or do you want me to call him?"

"Well, I'll call him," Disher states. "He's gonna be really let down; I'll break it to him gently."

We then hang up and I go sit next to Julie, and tell her all about what Monk found at the suicide scene.

"I feel bad for Mr. Monk," she says quietly. "Maybe he's not totally wrong."

A few minutes later I get a phone call from Monk.

"Natalie, we have to go to the medical examiner," he states breathlessly. "I have to look at the body again, before it's too late…."


	7. The Autopsy Room

After calling my parents to have them pick up Julie and watch her for awhile, because it might be a while, I head over to Monk's house in my vehicle. As soon as I honk on the horn, he comes running out of the apartment building, apparently having locked his door before I arrive.

"You're… late," he says, getting into the car.

"Mr. Monk, I had to have someone watch over Julie. It's easy to be early when you're living alone…."

I don't realize that this comment actually bothers him, for he's now looking sentimental, and then I remember that he wasn't always alone. "I'm sorry," I say.

"You know, even when Trudy was with me, she'd never make us late…. She… didn't even have to put on much makeup… she was a natural beauty…." He sighs and clicks his seatbelt in.

I have to make the subject lighter somehow. "Mitch was always the first to be ready; he never put on makeup at all," I cracked.

Monk smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. Not tearing up or watering, but I can read that look. It's a look of understanding, yet he knows he's not at the point to be able to make light of the situation like I can.

After some terrible directions from Monk as to where the hospital is, since I've never been there, I pull into the parking lot and the detective sitting next to me unbuckles his seat belt before I even stop the car. He must really be in a rush, to ignore his intense fear of dying.

"It's okay, Mr. Monk, I'm sure the body will still be here…" I attempt to calm him, as I park in a space near to the main entrance.

"You—you don't know that for sure, Natalie. What if the killer has burned the evidence?"

I laugh. "What is he going to do, make a bonfire in the parking lot? You can't just _burn_ a body like that."

He's still dead serious. "The body's already almost gone. It wouldn't take that much."

After ensuring that the doors are all locked and the windows rolled up, we head into the hospital. Monk pushes me to approach the front desk.

"Uh… autopsy room, please?" I ask quietly.

The receptionist gapes up at me, tilting her reading glasses to avoid looking through their fuzziness.

"Do you have verification to enter that room, Miss?" she inquires. I don't really know what to say, because I have no right to see that room. Monk speaks up for me, and I sigh with relief at not having to explain the situation.

"Mrs.—" he looks at her nametag, which is crooked, "Waldon, I am—we are working with the police force to solve a murd—"

She cuts him off. "All that is downstairs is a suicide victim, and some guy who drowned in the recent flooding." Monk approaches the desk, leaning forward very slowly to eventually fix her nametag.

"What are you doing, Mister?" she asks him, with a violated look on her face, as she rolls away in her chair.

"Just… your nametag…. It's crooked…." Monk says, as if it's completely normal to want to straighten a stranger's things. I elbow him in the ribs, and he jumps, making a grunting sound in the process.

He looks over at me, obviously hurt. "What did you do that for?" he asks, apparently clueless of his strange behavior.

"Leave her nametag alone," I say. "Don't you want to see the body?"

"Yes. Yes," he states quickly. "Mrs. Waldon, there are members of the force who do not believe that that man committed suicide, and I am here to verify what happened."

He really does have a way with words, when he's not nervous or preoccupied or caught-off-guard. Okay, it's a very rare thing for him to speak eloquently. He's always disturbed in some way.

"Alright, Sir and Miss, I have to make you nametags. What is your name, Sir?" She pulls out sticky nametags, which are wrapped around a roll, and a red magic marker.

"My name is… Adrian Monk…" the detective states quietly.

The woman scribbles his name on to the sticker as he watches in disgust. "How about you, Ma'am?"

"Natalie Teeger," I say, happy that Monk had mentioned me to let me come along.

She scribbles down my name as well, misspelling my last name. Monk is astounded. "You… spelled her surname wrong…." he says, pointing at the paper. I almost giggle out loud, hearing him say 'surname.'

"It's okay," the receptionist says warmly. "It won't be questioned by anyone." She hands Monk and me our stickers, smiling all the way. Monk won't touch his sticker, so I have to grab his as well as mine.

As we begin walking, I can hear the woman saying something to us. "You have to wear that sticker, sir, or else you can't get in to the room."

"Okay," he mumbles, half-turning around and waving as if he understands. I hand him the sticker, and he cringes at having to touch the sticky surface. He walks along, gaping down at his violated finger.

"Hold on," I say, and grab his arm. He stops and allows me to take the sticker off his finger. "Lemme put this on for you then," I explain, as I stick it to his jacket, ensuring that it is straight.

He attempts to look down at it, but it is too high up on his chest to see it very well from his angle. "Is it straight?" he cries desperately. "It's too high!"

"It looks fine, Mr. Monk." I face to the front again, signaling with my hand. "The body?" I say, attempting to divert his attention once more to the task.

"Yes, yes," he mumbles. "The body…."

We walk down a flight of stairs and reach a thick door with handles. Although Monk is in front of me, he steps politely out of the way to make me open the door.

As I pull the door open, he scoots through, avoiding touching the door surface, and waits for me to come through. Once through the door, I find myself at the end of a long sterile white hallway, and he smiles at me, in his perfect world.

"What's so great about this? The body could be anywhere." I scoff, unsure of how to proceed.

"Uhmmm..." His characteristic throat-clearing, and I can tell he's about to make me feel stupid again. I let him. "It's at the end of the hallway; see where it says 'autopsy room?'"

I nod my head exaggeratingly and we continue. I open the door of the autopsy room for him, and we both shrink back at the vapors that await us, hitting us in the face. It's a body, alright, but it's a rotten one, not a burnt one. Just as I am about to turn around, Monk notices a table covered with a tarp.

"It's… under the tarp," he states, walking over to it. He grabs a paper towel from a dispenser nearby and lifts the tarp, which is seemingly flat against the gurney. Underneath is the skeleton. He's right, as usual.

He pulls back the tarp a bit and stares intently at the bones of the skeleton. I sigh, left out of his depth of thought once more. "The bones…." he says. "They're so… white…" I have no idea what this could possibly mean, but I keep my mouth shut.

He turns his attention to the teeth. "These teeth are all fake." He lowers the jaw using the paper towel. "_All _of them…."

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"Simple. Look at the way they are connected into the jawbone." He beckons me over to point it out. "See? The metal stakes under them?"

"Ouch," I say. "That looks painful. It looks like they were screwed into his gums."

"You'd think, with a man having all false teeth, that he'd just get dentures. Every single tooth is drilled into—"

Suddenly the medical examiner walks in, and is startled by our presence in the room. "Who gave you clearance to come in here? This room is off-limits." He puts his hands on his hips. "Or else something _else _would go missing, like we need more of that crap…." he states, obviously disgusted by a recent occurrence. Monk backs away from the body.

"What?" he says. The medical examiner is angry and doesn't respond. He has to explain why we are here. "I'm –we're working with the San Francisco Police Department…." He looks over at me. "I'm Adrian Monk, and this is Nat—"

"This man committed suicide, sir," the examiner says. "I never knew suicides had to be investigated…."

"Well—they don't," Monk stammers. "I –members of the police department, some of them… think this was a homicide."

"The dental records match the victim's. And your captain said that the handwriting of the suicide note matches the victim's."

"But the man has false teeth. And the suicide note only had a first na—" Monk tries to blurt out, but the examiner stops him.

"I think your work is done here." The examiner is obviously annoyed, and crosses his arms.

Monk is not done though. "Could you… keep the body here for an extra two days? The lieutenant may have to do some follow-up on the case."

The medical examiner nods slowly and opens the door for us, and we leave.

"The white bones," Monk says, while shaking his head as we're leaving the room. "I don't know what it means, but it means something. And why would he say someone stole something? _Did _someone?"

"Mr. Monk," I say as sweetly as I can. "Why don't we look up information on his wife, to see if she had to do with his suicide?"

He nods and pulls off his sticker hastily to hand to me, and we exit the hospital.

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	8. The Newburn File

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After calling Lt. Disher to ensure that the station has Dave Newburn's file, I decide to stop by to pick it up. In it will be all the details of his life, including his jobs and information about his wife. I'll bet Disher will be excited, to be part of such a daring rebellion from Stottlemeyer's staunch belief in the man's suicide.

I tell Monk to stay in the vehicle while I retrieve the papers. I am met by Disher, who has a big grin on his face and the file in his hand. While displaying my sweetest smile, I sweep the file from his hand and thank him in one graceful movement. "Disher, could you make certain that the medical examiner doesn't get rid of the body yet?" I ask earnestly. I then lean in closer to him, preparing to whisper. "Please keep this top secret," I murmur into his ear. He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up sign.

"Of course," he replies. "Your secret is safe wi—"

"Shhhhhh…." I put my finger to my lips, as I back out of the doorway.

I soon return to the Cherokee with file in hand. I can see Monk smiling inside the car. "H-how did you get away from Disher so quickly?" he asks me as I slip into the driver's seat.

"That's my little secret," I say, as I give him a big smile. He smiles back unsteadily, as if he's unsure of what to think about my response.

We head back to my house in a matter of minutes, and immediately Monk plants himself on my couch to finger through the file. I have some work to do in the kitchen, and I open the door of the refrigerator to get the vegetables for the salad. After several seconds of intense study, he stands up, overjoyed with a discovery.

"The man…. Dave Newburn… was thirty-five years old!" he exclaims.

I leave the refrigerator door opened and stand in the doorway to view the look on his face. He is smiling, beaming, in fact, and I can't recall if I have seen him smile quite like that before. I doubt it.

"So…" I try to sound casual. "what does that mean?"

He is panting with excitement. "It means…. his teeth couldn't have all been fake. That's not his body!" He is swinging his hands around animatedly, and I have to admit, he really is impressive.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" I ask, with a little less excitement. I really am enthralled with the turn of events, but I don't want to show it just yet until we find out for sure.

"We have to tell the captain! We have to find out why this man faked his own suicide, and whose skeleton was found in that building."

"But his teeth are all pulled out…" I point out. "He doesn't have fingerprints…."

"That may be a problem," Monk says. "I'll figure something out; someone had to go missing…."

I notice that Monk's occasional stuttering and pauses in speech disappear when he is excited. He seems almost normal right now, besides the fact that he is wearing a perfectly pressed, heavy blazer in summery California weather, and in _my_ stuffy house, no less. His smile is truly contagious, as I am now smiling. Smiling and hoping that he is right.

After a short phone call ensuring that the captain is still at the station, we blaze down there in my vehicle, and hastily make our way to Stottlemeyer's office. The captain is sitting at his desk with his feet propped up, talking to Disher, who is seated nearby. I really hate to have to see the smile wipe off his face when Monk tells him.

He opens the door for us and allows us to come in, but Monk is so excited that he stops in the doorway to reveal the results of his investigation.

"That body in the building… that wasn't Dave Newburn's body," he says loudly, taking occasional gulps of air. Apparently his lungs aren't used to this kind of stimulation.

"What are you talking about, Monk? The dental records match and the suicide letter matches Dave Newburn's writing." Stottlemeyer is going to take a while to be convinced.

"Dave Newburn was thirty-five," Monk explains. "All the teeth are false teeth. They aren't dentures either. A person in their thirties wouldn't lose all their teeth like that…. And even if they did, they would get dentures."

Disher is obviously convinced. He is leaning in his seat towards us, eyes bright with excitement. He was part of our little plan.

"How did you find out that he was thirty-five?" Stottlemeyer demands.

Monk's smile wipes off his face. "The file…." he mumbles

The captain turns to Disher, causing his smile to immediately subside. "Did _you_ give them the file?"

I'd feel so bad if Disher gets in trouble for this, so I speak up. "I made him give it to us. I took it from him," I state confidently.

Monk looks over at me, understanding. "So that's how you got out so quickly…." It's really not the complete truth, mind you, but I am not going to correct his assumptions.

"Ms. Teeger," the captain says. "I didn't think you were capable of such—"

"Captain," Monk interrupts. "That body… I am almost certain that is not Dave Newburn's body."

"_How _certain?" he says, raising his eyebrows. Monk sighs.

"Do we have to go through this again? I'm 90 to 95 percent certain!"

"Well, what would make you more, or less, certain?" the captain is obviously disgusted by Monk's confidence in blowing his explanation out of the water, and hastily removes his feet from the desk.

"I'd like to talk to Dave Newburn's wife," he states quietly, looking down at his shoes. "They only separated a month or so ago. She may be involved, but I'm not sure."

"You know I can't get you a warrant on that, but if she talks on her own volition, that's fine." He sighs, obviously upset. He glares at Monk for a few minutes, and I have no idea what he's going to say next.

"Why can't you just let me gloat, for once, Monk?" he grumbles childishly, the disappointment apparent in his change of stance and the tone of voice.

We turn around to leave, not wishing to rub it in his face. I'm sure Monk only had good intentions for telling him. Let's face it, he is very naïve and so _couldn't_ have had any other meaning for his explaining his views to the captain.

After a restless night of sleep, I wake much earlier than usual, ready to delve further into this case with my employer. I shower quickly, eat some breakfast, and await his call. He calls at precisely 8 am, and I plan to pick him up in twenty minutes to drive to the wife's new home about an hour away.

I call my parents to pick up Julie, who would otherwise be alone all day, and have her hang out at their place, and I abruptly head out the door. I reach Monk's apartment in record time, but he is already at the base of the steps. For some reason he stands in place for a minute, as if it's completely normal to remain in place once the ride has arrived, and then proceeds to get into the vehicle. "You're early," he says, smiling, and, hearing a compliment, I forget to ask him about his minute-long hesitancy. I must have arrived on an odd number.

Before he can spout off random directions, I whip out a huge map, unfold it onto the steering wheel, and recite the road names to follow out loud. Hopefully he gets the point. He attempts to straighten out the folds in the paper, honking the Cherokee's horn instead. After his face changes from red to normal coloration in his embarrassment cycle, I put the map away and begin our trip.

It's a pretty easy route to follow; we will follow Interstate 880 for practically the whole trip. I keep the radio halfway up in case he reconsiders my being early. Instead he points out my minuscule driving errors, such as my not using blinkers to return to the slow lane, or my passing a really slow semi on the right.

"Don't you realize how dangerous this is!" he cries, holding onto the door and the dashboard simultaneously. "You're in his blind spot! And you—you're not even supposed to pass on the right!"

"It's alright, Mr. Monk, I've done this before," I say, wondering how a man who can't drive is actually telling me what I'm doing wrong right now.

"He is going to smush us to bits!" he cries, not releasing his grip.

I glance over at him. "Is that a technical term, 'smush?'" I comment. He doesn't say anything, instead staring at the side of the big tractor trailer.

Although we pass the truck safely, he doesn't compliment my dexterity and driving skills, instead enveloping himself in a nervous silence that I can feel in the air. He doesn't discuss the case either, but I think maybe it's because he doesn't want to jinx the situation by becoming too hopeful.


	9. The Interview

Once we reach our destination, a huge brick house, I notice several cars in the driveway, and we pull in behind them. I can't help but notice that the house is breathtakingly gorgeous, with huge brick columns on either side of the veranda, roses climbing up the trellises, and big shady sycamores spaced apart in the lush green yard. There is an aged wooden swing strung up on a sycamore bough, and I can see Monk concentrating on it, practically staring a hole right through it. Perhaps he recalls some memory involving one of those.

The cars parked in the driveway are all luxury automobiles, with a couple Lexuses, a Mercedes, a Beemer, and two Audis. Apparently this is not the time to have a serious chat with the woman of the house, and I am disappointed.

I look over at Monk to get his opinion, but he's still daydreaming about the swing. "Mr. Monk, snap out of it!" I say, snapping my fingers in front of his face. He jerks as if coming out of hypnosis, and flashes me a stunned look.

"What is it?" he manages to say.

"Do you see all the cars? How are we going to be able to talk to Mrs. Newburn?"

He puts his hand to his chin and ponders, still staring at that swing. I wave my hand in front of his face.

"Mr. Monk, I feel really stupid just sitting here in the car while you gape at some stupid swing!" I whine. I remove my seat belt and he begins to remove his.

"You wouldn't understand…." he mumbles.

"You know what? I _do_ understand, because you aren't the only one to have someone die. I have memories of Mitch, of places and things and moments. You can't let them interfere in your daily life. It's unhealthy…." I step out of the car, waiting for his reaction. Will he remain in the seat and pout, or will he emerge and try to explain?

He does the latter. As he shuts the door with his sleeve, he pulls a sycamore leaf off my windshield and holds it between the tips of his index finger and thumb, studying it carefully.

I gape. "Is _that_ what you were staring at?" I say, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. What a jerk I was, assuming all that about the swing!

He manages a nervous chuckle. "Actually, the swing _and _this. More this, though." He is probably able to hear my loud sigh of relief at me being partially right about the swing. Wait, though; I can tell from his expression that he is lying, because his eyes have a far-off cast.

"Okay, Mr. Monk, do you want to go inside now?"

He nods, dropping the leaf in the process, and beckons for a wipe. I hand him one, still feeling a pang of guilt, although I shouldn't now. I'm not an apathetic person.

I get to ring the doorbell, which I can hear chiming deeply throughout the house. A man in his mid-thirties answers the door.

"Hello there! What can I do for you folks?" he says cheerfully.

Monk speaks up. "We'd like to speak to Cindy Newburn, please," he says quietly.

The man at the door laughs drunkenly, and proceeds to open the door for us. "Come in, please," he states too politely.

The main room is huge. The ceiling has to be twenty feet high, and there are skylights casting their rays on the magnificent Persian carpeting.

A woman in her mid-thirties with layered dishwater-blond hair clicks into the room in her red pumps. She looks quite pampered, with a mink stole over her shoulders and heavy jewelry on her hands.

"How may I help you?" she says less than politely.

Mr. Monk steps forward, obviously intimidated, but manages to speak.

"I'm Monk –Adrian Monk, and this" –he signals to me –"is Natalie Teeger. We're working with the San Francisco Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband," he states, eyeing her outfit.

"My husband?" the woman asks, seemingly having problems remembering. I am disgusted by her heartlessness in not even remembering him.

"Your husband recently committed suicide, and I am having doubts as to whether or not that is true." He gives her a look of expectation, and she catches this.

"I am in the middle of a party," she groans deeply.

I speak up. "Mrs. Newburn, we promise we won't take too much of your time."

She acknowledges me with a tight smile. "Alright then. I guess it's two against one." It's an attempt to joke perhaps, but no one laughs.

Mrs. Newburn leads us to a living room with a smoldering fireplace, and comfy-looking leather couches set up in diagonals in front of a huge plasma television set. Monk is distraught at the lack of straight lines, but I grip his arm tightly to remind him why we are here.

She motions for us to sit, and we plop down on the couch as she takes a spot on the recliner. Instead of saying anything, though, she glares at us, obviously annoyed at the interruption, and stays silent. I pull out a notepad and pen to write down her responses.

"Alright…." Monk attempts to begin the questioning, but he's no conversationalist. "Mrs. Newburn, did your husband have a complete set of false teeth in his mouth?"

She gives him the strangest, most bewildered look, then realizing it's an actual question, opens her mouth to answer. "No, no, he didn't," she says. "He's not an old man!"

We all laugh nervously at her statement, and I scribble down the question and answer in sloppy shorthand.

"His life insurance policy and will – will it all go to you?" he stammers. This is an uncomfortable question for him to ask.

"I guess it does, because we are still married. I never thought of that before…. I guess I'll be sent all of that information in a day or two…." She is gaining interest now, at the thought of money.

"Do you know how much his life insurance policy is worth?" he asks, seemingly on to her, or something.

"I'm not really sure, maybe 200k? He had an awfully hefty policy, being a lowly restaurant proprietor and all…. He bought it late, too, maybe a year or so ago…"

"Did you have any children together?"

She shakes her head quickly. "Heavens, no," she states, almost chuckling. I don't understand why he asks that question, because it was in the file already. Maybe he had expected a different answer? I am confused by his logic, and my wrist is now aching from recording results of this rapid question/answer game.

"This place–" he looks around the room, signaling with his hands, "—that you are living in, whose house is this?"

"It is John Smith's house, the man I have been seeing for almost half a year. But Dave knew about tha—"

The detective cuts her off, realizing she is now trying to defend herself. Somehow she has caught on to the nature of this conversation.

"Hmm…" he mumbles. "I don't know how to ask th…. Did Mr. Smith buy this house himself? Or did you contribute?"

"Well, my father and grandfather were both dentists, so my family is relatively wealthy." She seems uncomfortable, rubbing the fur like it is going to run away if not petted continually. "We went 50-50 on the house."

Monk is on to something; there is now a twinkle in his eye. "What was the relationship like between your father and your husband?" He is eager to hear her response to this, because he is now leaning slightly forward.

I can tell that Mrs. Newburn considers this to be a very random question. "Well," she stutters, "at first it was just a standard in-law relationship. Once he found out that I was cheating on him though, he began to call my dad all the time, wanting to spend time with him. Maybe he thought if he won my father over, he'd get me back. He even told him he was going to try to get into dentistry himse—"

I think Monk has figured it out, but I can sense that he is going to ask one more question, and so spits it out hastily. "Mrs. Newburn, did you and your husband have separate bank accounts? How did you get away with purchasing a home with Mr. Smith when you were still married?"

The woman leans back in her recliner, laughing to herself. "I don't keep my money in a bank, although I kept some in the joint account to look like I was trying. He actually had no idea that I'd purchased that house; he didn't even know I was unfaithful at the time. I've always kept cash hidden around the house, and so he couldn't find any weird receipts in the mail. Now that I think of it, I've always done that though; I don't trust the stock market enough. I am a lot richer than he thought I was." She winks at Monk, proud of her strategy.

He stands up stiffly, affixing a rather natural smile on his face, and reaches out to shake her hand. I am surprised at this motion, and gape in shock as he grasps her hand and proceeds to shake it. I follow suit, and we are soon all smiling at each other.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Newburn," Monk says, as we turn towards the door. "Enjoy your party." We wave to her politely as the man assumed by me to be John opens the door for us.

"Oh, the _party_? Those people are all John's friends; they are planning on going on a fishing trip with John for the next few days, and leaving in about fifteen minutes. John takes these trips a couple times a month. I guess I'm being punished for how I hurt David; I have to stay here alone." Monk smiles at her, looking interested in what she has to say. The woman continues. "Even so, I'm going to splurge tonight in preparation."

"Splurge?" Monk has trouble pronouncing the word.

She is taken aback at his naivety. "I'm going to go _shopping_, silly! It's what I do for entertainment. _That's _where all this jewelry is from, not from Dave or John." She wiggles her fingers stiffly, for huge columns of rings are around each and every finger.

We continue to say our goodbyes, and I can tell the mood has most certainly lighted since our entrance into the house. Monk seems to be satisfied, and Mrs. Newburn is not so on edge anymore. Apparently Monk had been sending vibes of relief to her, but I had been too busy writing to notice them.

The door closes behind us, and I immediately realize that he didn't get her number. "Mr. Monk, how are you going to question her again? You didn't take her phone number!"

"I know all I need to know," he states matter-of-factly, flashing me a mischievous grin.

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	10. Case Solved But Not Closed

We notice that even though the partying seems to have died down, all the expensive vehicles are still sitting in the driveway. There is an excited silence in the air, and it is obvious that Monk has won a small victory today.

Right when he gets into the vehicle though, Monk's expression changes to one of thoughtfulness, as it usually is. We get in the Cherokee, and proceed to reenter the highway, which is only a few blocks from the gorgeous home. I keep quiet, not wanting to break his concentration. I can almost hear the wheels in his head turning.

After we've driven for about half an hour, I can't stand the silence anymore, and I ask him what his opinion is. "So, did Mrs. Newburn do it?"

"Nah…." He shakes his head slowly. "She didn't have anything to do with his _supposed_ suicide. And he's most definitely still alive."

"Well, how do you know that?" I ask, trying to uncover his reasoning.

"She has moved out of the house and continued her life without him. She is plenty rich, so she doesn't need his money. She doesn't care about him at all. And as she said, he didn't _wear_ false teeth." He pauses as if finished.

"That's _it_?" I am shocked at his short number of reasons.

"No…." he seems agitated at me for interrupting him. "When you and I called her 'Mrs. Newburn' on different occasions, she didn't respond in the kind of uncomfortable way that a… guilty person might respond. She didn't correct us, either. She _couldn't_ have had anything to do with this. She doesn't care enough about him."

"That's all well and good, but why would Dave Newburn fake his own suicide?" I blurt out.

"I've been trying to figure that out myself," he responds. "Wipe."

"Wipe," he says again, after an awkward pause. At first I'm completely thrown off, but then I remember that he had shaken the woman's hand before we left the house. I consider asking him why he had made the first move to do such a thing, but I realize that maybe he felt _daring_, if you could actually call it that, after getting a much-needed break in the case now.

I hand him the wipe, and he speaks up again. "He burned down his own house, with all his possessions in it. Seems like a stupid move, if he's expecting any kind of advantage to what he did. He must have one hell of an insur—"

He's got it now. I can see his eyes light up and his whole body switching into solved-the-case mode. A huge smile crosses his lips and he looks right at me, a childlike excitement dancing across his face.

"What is it, Mr. Monk? Did you solve the case?"

"Yes." I'm so happy for him that I'm feeling giddy too. He doesn't elaborate, though; a troubled look takes the place of his grin.

"Do you have your cell phone with you?" he asks, seemingly out of the blue.

"Yes," I mumble, reaching for my purse on the console. "I don't think there's reception here though…."

He gets a panicky look now.

"We have to hurry to the police station. They have to know—"

"Know _what_, Mr. Monk?"

He puts his hand on the console and pales noticeably. "Cindy Newburn is in danger."

Again, he chooses not to elaborate. It's kind of like Disher, walking into a room saying, "You won't believe what I heard," then just standing there with a stupid smile on his face. It's quite annoying to have to actually ask him to continue, but I do anyway, after waiting for what seems like five minutes.

"How so?" I ask.

"Dave Newburn faked his own suicide so that _she_ would get all his money. He _knew_ that she would keep it hidden in the house, just like she had always done. Somehow he had known, probably by speaking with her father, that she would be alone for a few days. He figured being dead would get him off the hook of being a suspect, and so he could steal the money, making it look like a robbery and getting away cleanly."

I don't say anything for a half a minute, completely startled at how he could have possibly come up with this from a few measly clues and an informal interview.

In complete admiration of this investigative genius, I reach over and pat him on the shoulder. "You truly amaze me, Mr. Monk. You're a genius."

I can see him beginning to blush, and he scoffs at my comment. "No, I'm not," he says. How can he remain so humble? He's a great detective, but he's so humble about it that it's hard to fathom how he could keep the pride of it inside of him.

As we continue along the crowded highway with more urgency than before, I can hear my stomach growling, but I choose to ignore it. If Dave Newburn really is going to rob her soon, I'd feel awful if something ended up happening to her on account of my hunger. Even so, Monk has heard it and is now studying me up and down as if I had just spit up on my shirt. I try to ignore him.

We reach the police station in about a half an hour, although I had hoped that my constant little bursts of speed to get around semis would cut the time. I'll have to remember that next time I am 'risking my life,' as Monk puts it so kindly.

Upon parallel parking in front of the building, I shut off the car and Monk immediately unbuckles his seat belt and leaps out onto the sidewalk. He shuts the door with a soft click, and I hit the lock button on my keyless entry so that we can proceed in.

I can tell that Monk doesn't really want to do this because this will most certainly upset Stottlemeyer, but if a person's life is on the line, then screw his feelings. He'll get over it soon enough. He was ready to rub his ass-umptions in Monk's face when he thought he had known what had happened yesterday.

Now Monk is wringing his hands, and it seems as if we're walking in slow motion. He stops momentarily to straighten some Wanted poster on the wall, and I continue walking a few more steps. I did all that quick driving for what? So he could rearrange the hallways?

I'm sorry, I'm just a little fed up by the big deal he made of this. It's like he's forgotten a life may be at stake here, and he had said it himself.

"Come on, Mr. Monk; didn't you say this was urgent?" I whine, grabbing his arm and tugging him away from his fix-it job. He tries to fight my hold, leaning his body back towards the wall. I continue to pull, and angle my feet for a stronger foothold on the floor.

Soon enough, he comes stumbling towards me, and I let him run into me.

"Are you _trying_ to pull my arm out of its socket? Geez…." he rubs his shoulder, glaring at me the whole time.

"You can't be such a wimp all the time," I respond flatly. I know this will tick him off, but he really needs to get his mind off of the stupid posters.

"H-how can you _say_ that? Do you think you're _stronger _than me or something? Well…" He fixes his sleeves. "I'll tell you, I'm stronger than Sharona, and she weighs more than you do."

"That's very nice and all, but we have to tell the captain something very important? Remember?" I start to walk away, and decide to tease him a bit. "You're _still _a wimp," I add coyly, speeding my pace up.

He scoffs and I can tell he is putting his hands on his hips in disbelief of what I just said. Even so, his concentration is off the wall now, and I am satisfied. Maybe we'll actually get to Stottlemeyer's office tonight.

I can hear the rapid thumping of shoes behind me, and the detective appears beside me, walking so close to me and so in my face that it's as if he's trying to count my eyelashes.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of how we must look right now.

"Take back what you said," he says in a dangerous yet surprisingly timid tone of voice, if you can possibly imagine that combination, but this just puts me over the edge, and I double over as I burst out laughing.

He watches me from his higher vantage point, with hands on hips again. He's leaning more to one side, showing me the impatience that he is feeling right now.

"Why is this so amusing to you?" he demands. I continue laughing. I don't know what's keeping me going so long, but now my eyes are watering.

"Is that your 'tough guy' stance?" I blurt out, still cracking up and bent over.

He hasn't moved. He watches me for a few more moments then heads back over to the wall.

"No!" I yell, standing back up. My laughing jag is done. No way am I going to let him fix more posters.

He is ignoring me now, pouting like a little kid in the corner. He is completely facing the wall now, so that I can't pull his arm to pull him back into the center of the hallway.

"I demand you stop pouting," I order, crossing my arms. "I don't know what your problem is, but we have work to do."

He doesn't even acknowledge me! He remains in the same position, now lifting his arm to straighten a corner of a missing children poster. I know what'll get him to move, but it's a risky move for me indeed. He'll probably be so embarrassed by it that he'll forget to get angry.

Cautiously, I avoid grabbing hold of the blazer fabric, and I affix my hand to the waistline of the back of his pants. I yank very quickly, and he doubles over at the waist at the initial shock of the sudden jerk, and is easily pulled back into the center of the hallway.

After I let go of him and cross my arms once more, in a defiant way this time, he finds it hard to look me in the eye for a few seconds, remaining slightly bent forward. When he straightens back up to look at me, I'm not sure what to think of how he's looking at me. I'm kind of scared though and I search his face for clues at to what he could possibly say or do next.

Just then, Stottlemeyer opens a door and greets us as we stand in our awkward positioning in the hallway. "What the hell are you doing, Monk?" he asks in his deep voice.

Monk jumps at his voice, apparently not noticing anything else, other than whatever he was thinking after I pulled him by his pants.

"Oh, uhmm… nothing, Captain," he says. "Although I came here to tell you something."

He's pulling a Disher, because he doesn't elaborate any further. Maybe he feels bad just blurting it out.

"What _is_ it then?"

"Well, I visited Dave Newburn's wife, and I solved the case. However, there is a problem…."

He is purposely avoiding looking at me! He stares at his feet, in embarrassment maybe? In shame? I don't know, but he continues.

"Mrs. Newburn is in danger. And there is one aspect I still don't understand about the case…." He seems scatterbrained right now, and I'm not sure what Stottlemeyer is thinking of his limited explanations.

"Okay, let's go back to my office. Tell me the whole story then, and I'll then understand whatever you are talking about." He puts a hand on Monk's shoulder, and begins to walk him down the hallway towards the door of the offices.

"The suicide!" Monk exclaims. "The—fire right across from this police station!"

"Ohh…." The captain winks at me from behind the detective. "Just kidding with ya, Monk." He nudges his ribs with a fist, and after Monk flinches, we head into the heart of the police department.

Once we enter Stottlemeyer's office, I take a seat in front of his desk and the captain proceeds to sit behind his desk. Monk is still standing. I tug his jacket, and he slaps my hand away.

"When I went to talk to Mrs. Newburn today, I had thought that maybe she had something to do with this all. She invited us in, and answered all of my questions." He takes a pause to fix a figurine that is crooked on Stottlemeyer's mini fridge, and the captain speaks up. I proceed to slap Monk's hand, and he jerks it away from the crooked item.

"Is that all you got, Monk?" the captain asks.

"No….." Monk crosses his arms awkwardly in front of him, not used to keeping his hands away from things. He's still mad at me, I can tell, but there are more pressing matters at hand.

"So you solved the case, did ya?" Stottlemeyer is ready to cut to the chase. He's used to this kind of thing, I guess, having Monk around.

"Y-yes, I did…." He pauses for a moment, and prepares to explain.

"Okay…." He is now going to put the whole picture together for everyone, and I am glad. As he begins to speak, he moves his hands to convey things, yet somehow avoids seeing or touching the sloppy stack of papers in front of him on the captain's desk.

"David Newburn's wife had been having an affair on him for several months. He eventually caught on to it, but thought maybe it was just a phase, and so he let her continue…. When she moved out of the house a month or so ago to live with the guy, he couldn't stand it any more… and thought of a way to get his revenge on her. He then came up with the idea of faking his own suicide, which would automatically eliminate himself as a suspect in anything that became of her."

Stottlemeyer wants to say something. I can see it in his eyes. Monk continues before he can interrupt him again.

"He _knew_ that her father was a dentist, so he began to visit him at his office all the time…. He… then used his father-in-law's supplies to make molds of his _own_ teeth to use as the teeth in the body that would be found in his home." At this point Monk sees the stack, and leans forward to straighten it, and I sigh quite loudly at his time-wasting. He continues to speak as he taps the sides of the papers together to line them up.

"The next part of this is not very clear to me…." he adds quietly. "He either… kills somebody or…. Well, I'm not sure… but the point is that he replaces the man's teeth with replicas of his own, and decides to set the place on fire, to reduce the body to a skeleton so fingerprints can't be taken. He then… writes his own suicide note, and, wanting to ensure that it doesn't get destroyed, he sticks it in a fireproof box, and leaves the key on the body to connect it to the note."

Things are beginning to click with me, and I can tell Stottlemeyer is definitely convinced by this, but Monk continues.

"However, he runs into trouble after this. He has to make sure that _someone_ can get to the body and see that that person had written the note. He figures that he can prevent the stairs and the floor from burning by soaking it with water. Being right across from the police station, he doesn't realize the firefighters will arrive as quickly as they do." He looks over at me. "Remember that man we saw who was walking out of the house? The man with the… underclothes on?"

"Oh yes," I say, completely forgiving him for his childlike behavior earlier. He has actually acknowledged my presence. "He looked like he was drunk or something…."

"Well… I think that Mr. Newburn was hiding out in the house when the firefighters arrived. When the lead firefighter came in to investigate the… state of the building, he knocked him out and put on his uniform and gas mask, so that no one would recognize him. He had to convince the cops to check out the body…." He begins to wobble, and seems almost on the verge of falling over. "Oh my God, we even _met_ him!" he exclaims.

"Which one?" Stottlemeyer asks.

"The-the first one! The one who didn't take off his mask, even though he was well away from the building. The one who… spit…. He _couldn't_ let the other firefighters carry the body out of the building, because it would have been separated from the box with the note. The… suicide idea wouldn't have held up as well, with that in mind."

He paces across the room.

"He is going to rob his wife at some point. That's why he didn't divorce her even though she clearly deserved a divorce. He wanted her to get the cash when he 'died', so she'd hide it in her home because that's what she says she's always done and he'd know just where to find it. It'd be in cash, so there'd be no loose ends, and he'd get away scot-free. Because he had 'killed himself,' he wouldn't even be considered a suspect."

Stottlemeyer stands up. "Well, we'd better get on it then. Where does she live?"

Monk starts to open his mouth, but I know better than to let him get the captain lost. "I'll explain it to you, Captain," I say quietly. The detective frowns.

We walk into the main office space of the police station, and Stottlemeyer approaches Disher, who is chatting happily on the phone… probably with some female friend.

"Disher," he says. "I was wrong about the case. Monk is—as usual—correct, but someone is in danger. We need the men to get ready." He turns to me. "So, what's the lady's number?"

I glare at Monk. "He didn't get her number off of her," I state.

The detective speaks up. "I… know the name of the man who owns the house, so we can call the operator, or something, right? His name is John…" his eyes are now downcast, and he kicks the floor. "Smith…."

"Great!" Stottlemeyer exclaims, throwing his arms up in the air. "Only the most common name in the United States! Do you have an address?"

Monk's eyes light up, but soon fade. "Yes… but it's such a recent address; they just moved in this past month…."

"Well," the captain grumbles. "I guess that means we drive all our men down there and have a little weekend stakeout."


	11. Conclusion

After Captain Stottlemeyer gathers together and arms about a half-dozen officers, I head to my vehicle to lead the carpool to her house. I am told that Disher is going to ride in the Cherokee to keep in contact with the rest of the crew if we should get separated.

"Shotgun!" the lieutenant yells, dashing for the passenger's side door. Monk is still at the entrance of the building, looking confused as hell. I get into my car and start it up, and he's still standing over there.

"What are you talking about? There's no shotgun in the ca—" I hear him say.

Disher jumps into the passenger's seat as it all sinks into the detective's head. He jogs over to the car and knocks on Disher's window.

The sneaky lieutenant clicks the door locked then rolls down the power window about halfway, as he pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing?" Monk asks, and I can see the anger building in him. "That's my seat!"

Disher is laughing and fastening his seatbelt now. I think Monk is going to strangle him. "Well, I don't see your name on it," he teases, beginning to roll the window back up. Monk crosses his arms and tries to walk it off; maybe he's counting to ten or something.

"Wow, you guys are really immature," I murmur. Disher flashes me a goofy grin, his trademark. "Are you actually going to let him sit in the back?" I say.

"I… get carsick if I sit in the back," he replies coolly.

"Well, Mr. Monk wouldn't like that very much. Roll down your window so I can tell him."

He proceeds to do so, but only rolls it down a fourth of the way. "Mr. Monk!" I yell, and the fuming detective, his arms crossed and back to us, turns toward the vehicle.

"Randy can't sit in the back," I tell him. "He says he gets carsick. Would you want him to do that?" I don't really care if Disher is lying or not; I just want to get to the woman's house as quickly as possible.

"That's a lie," he states, glaring at the lieutenant. "He's always sat in th—"

"Does it really matter?" I ask him. "What if he really _does_ get carsick? Do you want him puking all over the back of your neck?"

That's enough to convince Monk. Without saying another word, he climbs into the back seat, behind Disher.

"Thank you for being mature about this," I say to him. He has to look behind him to find the seatbelt, and once he fastens it, we head out.

Disher puts on his sunglasses and whips out the walkie-talkie. "Captain, are you ready to go? Over."

I can tell already that Monk is going to kill him before this is all over, because the damn police van is right behind us at the moment, and has been following us for a few seconds already.

"Yes, we are, as you can clearly see," the deep voice replies.

"Ohh, I see," Disher says, glancing into the rear view mirror. "Sorry about that. Over."

I am watching Monk in the back seat; he's really being a trouper so far, although he's rolling his eyes and fidgeting.

We make a left turn. Disher speaks into the walkie-talkie again. I notice the police van applying its turn signal as well, as it turns into the same lane. "Are you still following us, Captain?" he asks, totally oblivious. "We just made a left turn onto Richmond. Over."

Monk is twiddling with his hands, trying to keep them together, as he continues to roll his eyes. He leans forward. "Natalie," he says quietly, unable to be heard by Disher. "Please, make him stop…."

"I can't make him do anything," I say. "He's only spoken twice on it."

Monk sighs. "No… he's spoken on it three times."

Disher is now waiting for Stottlemeyer to respond, and is continually checking the mirrors as if panicked.

"Yes, we're still following you. Are you going to ask that every time?" the captain says. Disher waits a beat, and then just has to say something else.

"Captain," Disher responds. "You have to say 'over' at the end. Over."

"How about this? Your walkie-talkie days are. Over."

Monk is laughing now, because Stottlemeyer is telling Disher off. Even so, he's going to have to spend a whole hour in the back seat of a vehicle. I hope that that is Disher's last call.

Nope, I was wrong. He's raring to speak again. He holds the device in his left hand this time, and fools with the power window with his right.

Monk suddenly leans forward and yanks the walkie-talkie out of Disher's hand, taking advantage of his temporary weakness. I almost choke, trying to hold back the laughter at this extremely juvenile situation.

Monk then speaks into the device he's holding with a covered hand. "Captain, he won't be bothering you any more from now on. Over and… out!" He smugly tucks the walkie-talkie into an inner pocket of his jacket, as Disher watches, visibly upset.

"Give that back," he demands. "That's _police_ equipment. You're not authorized to touch it; it's only for _police_ officers."

He's trying to upset Monk now. He knows that Monk wants to be back on the force, and he's rubbing it in his face.

"Just let him hold it for awhile," I say, intercepting this potentially dangerous conversation.

Disher continues to glare at the detective. "Turn around," I say, in a more demanding tone. He stays put. I grab his shoulder. "Just leave him alone, okay?" It's like I'm trying to break up two preschoolers, but Disher knows he shouldn't mention such touchy subjects to Monk; he knows it bothers him.

I check what the detective is doing in the backseat. He's looking troubled again, but at least Disher can shut up from now on.

The remainder of the trip is pretty uneventful. To prevent any more quarrels between my boss and the lieutenant, I turn on the radio at a decent loudness so that it's impossible to hear anything in the back seat. Monk shifts uncomfortably continuously, wiping off the walkie-talkie with his shirt sleeve for the rest of the trip.

We arrive at Mr. Smith's house, preparing to set up ranks of cops around the vicinity as Monk and I prepare to knock at her door to calm her down and get her out of the house. It's a tense time, with bulletproof-vested cops drinking bottled water and loading their weapons in the back of the van as Disher follows Monk around with his hand out, wanting his walkie-talkie back.

We can see lights on in the upstairs rooms; I notice that all the cars are still there, so Mrs. Newburn has to be back by now.

Monk stops in the driveway as if a wall has suddenly solidified in front of him. "What is it, Monk?" the captain asks him.

"There's… another vehicle in the driveway," he says. "It's another Audi." He walks around to the back of it, examining its license. "It has temporary plates," he adds.

"There _were _two Audis earlier, Mr. Monk," I tell him, recalling the luxury vehicles.

"Yes, but this one is a… different color…" he says carefully. "A darker shade of silver…"

"Are you kidding me?" Stottlemeyer asks. "It's dark outside, Monk! Of course it's a darker silver in the dark!"

I really don't know if Mr. Monk is right or not. I honestly didn't pay that much attention at the time; I just noticed the brands of the vehicles.

"Where did the other silver one go then? Did someone replace it with a darker one just to _confuse_ you, is that what you think?"

"No…" the detective replies. "This is definitely different. This vehicle has temporary plates. I'm sure that this is Dave Newburn's…. He must have known what kind of vehicle John Smith owned—the one that was taken on the trip—and didn't want to cause undue suspicion, so he bought the same model. Must've forgotten what color it was, though…." He pales, backing away from the car. "I'm not answering that door."

"Alright then. _ I_ will," the captain says. He looks to the group of vested cops. "Surround the place, and two of you follow me," he commands, as a precaution, I'm guessing. It's not easy to prove Monk wrong when it comes to details like that.

I hold my breath as the captain heads to the front door. He rings the doorbell and stands casually to wait for an answer. Minutes pass, and still no one answers.

The doorbell is rung again. I guess the captain really doesn't want to break into this house unless he absolutely has to.

Still no response. Stottlemeyer walks back over to us with his characteristic swagger. "You're probably right, Monk. Should we send them in? Are you _really _certain of this now?"

I can tell Monk is pleasantly surprised at having a word in what is about to happen. "Yes... Something has to be wrong…."

"Okay then…" the captain begins to walk away, but spins around. "Now, robber-in-the-house wrong or happy widow hangover wrong?"

"The former," the detective responds. He doesn't want to say such a silly-sounding phrase. "It is strange though, how quiet the house is. No alarms, no screaming…"

"Well, maybe the place doesn't have an alarm," the captain states.

"Oh, I'm sure that it does, but obviously Newburn has thought this all out and wouldn't do something so stupid. He probably entered by having her answer the front door."

The captain instructs his men to enter the home from the glass doors at the back of the house. We hear the house alarm going off at the initial shatter. I can see Monk smiling. "I knew it had an alarm," he says to me quietly. The men can be heard creeping into the house, stepping on the broken glass, and their flashlights shine through the front windows.

After a few minutes, we hear the men yelling, as well as the crashing of some furniture. Monk cringes, most likely thinking of all the overturned tables and chairs that are laying everywhere right now.

Stottlemeyer speaks into the walkie-talkie. "Are you guys all right?" he asks, obviously extremely curious.

One of the men responds. "We got someone. A man…." Static ensues. "—gun."

"What about the woman?" Monk asks the captain.

Stottlemeyer gives the 'wait' signal. "Have you found the woman yet?" he adds.

"No," is the simple response.

It seems like hours pass as we wait for the next radio. Stottlemeyer is getting impatient, and Monk is pacing back and forth, holding his hands out in front of him as if analyzing a crime scene.

"Do you know where she might be, Mr. Monk?" I ask.

"No," he responds, and continues to elaborate. "He was obviously going to kill her after he got the money. He had to make it look like a robbery and not like a revenge killing, so he couldn't make the scene too gory or grotesque. Something simple… like a single bullet to the head…." He sighs, looking down at the ground. "She's probably dead already…."

"Don't give up hope yet. They found him. He was still in the house. Why would he just hang out there after he killed her?"

"True…." he mumbles.

There is a radio. We all huddle around the walkie-talkie, extremely curious.

"We found the woman," the man on the other end states. Monk crosses his fingers, for what the next statement will be. "She's alive…."

We all sigh in relief.

"Was she hurt?" the captain asks.

"We found her tied up and gagged in the bathroom," the man responds after several seconds. "She's pretty scared, but she's safe now."

After several minutes have passed, the force exits the building, pulling along a handcuffed man in a ski mask and black jumpsuit. The woman also emerges from the home, a blanket around her shoulders, flanked by the last couple of officers. Around her mouth is a red line showing that she had been gagged; that's why we couldn't hear her.

Stottlemeyer walks up to the mystery man and whips his ski mask off. Mrs. Newburn screams. "Oh my God! Dave?"

Monk looks over at me and gives me a huge smile. I pat him on the back, grinning back at him.

The man is brought back to the station and identified as Dave Newburn, for his dental records and fingerprints match those of the man he had attempted to kill off. The body that had been found in the fire has not yet been identified, and so Newburn is being held for murder and attempted murder, as well as a half-dozen other felonies including arson and attempted robbery, in the county jail as he awaits trial.

"Do you think Newburn killed that person that was found in the fire?" I ask, as we walk to my Cherokee from the station the next day, after all this about Dave Newburn has been revealed.

He gives his characteristic shrug and neck twitch, and shakes his head sadly. "I… can't bel… I feel so close to figuring it out," he says, watching as a large tawny mutt approaches us with a huge white bone in its mouth. It comes up to me, and I begin to pet it.

"Oh, Natalie…" he sighs exasperatingly. "Ple—don't touch the… dog…" he says. "You don't know where it's bee—"

The friendly canine drops the bone at my feet, maybe hoping to play fetch. I am feeling pretty adventurous at the moment, and I pick it up, preparing to throw it for him. Monk is scowling now, glaring at my hands as if they are gangrenous.

"Drop it," he says. "Drop the… bone…." He begins to walk back towards the police station.

I laugh at him. "The dog already did, Mr. Monk!" I yell over my shoulder.

I hold the bone behind my head now, preparing to throw it. Monk gives me one last glare as he strolls, scoffing, back up the stairs to the offices. I let the spit-covered thing go flying down the sidewalk, as the dog takes off after it excitedly.

I look back at the miserable detective, whose expression has now changed to one of intense interest. "The… bone..." he says, watching it sail through the air.

His shoulders square and posture magically changes to one of confidence. "Oh my God!" he says. "I just figured out what Newburn did!"

He's smiling now, and walking through the police station doors. I run after him. He waits for me at the door, to open it for him, but changes his mind and opens it himself.

"Never mind," he says, as I catch up beside him. "Your hands are... filthy…."

"Whose is it, Mr. Monk?" I ask. "How the hell could _that_ have tol—"

He silences me with a hand. "The person was already dead when the fire was started…. The blood had been drained from it beforehand…. That's why the bones were so white and didn't burn well. That also explains why the body was just laying there, not curled up in a corner of the room…. There had to have been a body gone missing at the hospital morgue…."

I speak up, realizing something from our visit to the hospital. "I understand now! _That's _why the medical examiner was so upset about having us in there without permission! That's why he said something _else _doesn't need to be stolen…. He just didn't want to mention _what_ was stolen, because a missing body would've made him look bad!"

Smiling, Monk pats me on the arm, seemingly proud of _me_. It's funny how this moment is making me feel a mixture of happiness and guilt. I then realize that I want _Monk_ to get all the credit. This case was completely solved by him and him alone.

Dave Newburn had stolen a body from the autopsy room. This wasn't going to go over well for the captain, for he had Newburn in jail for _murder _charges, but truth was truth; this had to be told. They could still get him for some pretty big felonies.

After Monk meets with the captain and reveals this new data, Stottlemeyer makes a call to the autopsy room and finds out that a body had indeed been stolen, the body of an unidentified homeless man.

"Well, the case is closed now, Mr. Monk…." I declare, smiling to myself, as we leave the police station. "I'll bet you're happy to have everything figured out." We walk slowly to my vehicle, and I clasp my hand around his arm, which he actually lets me do. He had forced me to wash my hands while in the station, but honestly, I would have done so anyway. That bone _was_ really gross, come to think of it.

It seems to me like I should feel proud for him like I do for Julie when she accomplishes something at school, like I should be clapping goofily and smiling _way_ too much for the situation. I don't, though… It's a deeper, more mature sense of happiness for this amazing man walking beside me. And the fact that he merely responds with his signature shrug and neck twitch is more reason to be utterly speechless at what he is capable of accomplishing.


End file.
